


Console

by LydiaN



Category: The Monkees
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaN/pseuds/LydiaN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael turns a terrible audition into an unexpected bonding moment, and he’s not really sure why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Console

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Reading the quote from Tommy Boyce (see end notes) about Peter’s vocal audition made me revisit this old scrap of writing.

*****

Con-SOLE (transitive verb), to comfort  
CON-sole (noun), control panel

*****

Michael loathed the vinyl chairs in the Colgems studio lobby. They managed to be simultaneously sticky and hard, and seemed to have been designed specifically to prevent his comfort. Considering that he had been _persona non grata_ in the studio since day one, it made bitter sense that even the furniture would conspire against him. 

He placed his motorcycle helmet on the floor in front of him, resting first one foot and then the other on it in an attempt to alleviate the stabbing pain in his lower back. The relative ease was short-lived. Moments after he closed his eyes and sighed, he felt someone tripping over his crossed ankles. 

“Crap!” cried Micky as he crashed to the floor in a flurry of arms and legs. Davy snickered from his vantage point across the room.

Michael opened one heavy eyelid. “Micky, I didn’t pace this much when Christian was born. Sit. Cool it.”

“Can’t. What’s taking so long?” Micky clambered to his feet and made another circuit of the small lobby. He looked from Davy to Michael and then back to the closed doors down the hallway. “The song’s not even three minutes long and Peter’s been gone twenty.”

“Well, it was three minutes long when you sang it,” Davy remarked dryly. “It’s entirely possible that Peter needed more than one take. ‘Saturday’s Child’ might grow into ‘Thursday’s Teenager' before he’s done. It isn’t exactly his strong suit, singing.”

Micky stopped pacing for a moment. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve never heard him sing. Is he really all that bad?”

Davy ducked the question and regarded Michael, who counted to ten before he began to speak. “He doesn’t have the best breath control in the world, and when he gets nervous he gets a little flat.“ It wasn’t a ringing endorsement but it was better than his initial assessment: that Peter’s voice was simply godawful. How someone that musically literate and who played so many instruments could just not hang on to a tune or a tone…

“A little?” Davy’s eyebrows shot up so far that they were obscured by his bangs. “Mike, I love the guy, but when he tries to sing he sounds like an elephant taking a dry shit.”

Micky barked out a laugh and Michael had to steady his own lips to restrain himself from joining him. “C’mon, David, it’s not all that awful. If we help him out a little, then—“

His words were interrupted by the sudden banging of the control room door against the wall of the corridor. Emerging from the doorway was Peter, walking dejectedly toward the lobby. 

“Shit,” Michael muttered under his breath.

Davy stood up and cocked his head. “Peter? How’d it go?”

“What happened? What did Tommy say?” Micky added.

Michael didn’t need to hear the answer; he could read it in Peter’s tightly set lips and clenched fist. The sheet music in his hands had been rumpled and twisted beyond recognition. Bad news.

Peter simply waved Micky’s question away. He shook his head until his long hair cascaded over his eyes. “I can’t,” he grumbled. “Not now, okay?”

Davy stood up. “If he didn’t like it, I’d be happy to work with you a bit. Let’s see what we can do to fix things, you know?”

That was so like Davy, Michael mused as he watched the interplay. He was capable of saying some rotten things, but when the chips were down he’d step in and do what was right. 

Peter’s laugh was mirthless. He surveyed Davy with dull eyes. “I’d be happy if all that happened was that he didn’t like it.”

“It’s fine, man, don’t worry,” Micky chirped brightly. Always the peacemaker, always the one who didn’t want tension spoiling things among them, he stepped forward and put his hand comfortingly on Peter’s tense shoulder.

That did it. Peter flung the sheet music down on the floor, not petulantly but in utter despair. “It’s not fine. Don’t,” he continued, shrugging Micky’s hand away. “I know you mean well, but just don’t, okay?”

Micky looked at his palm as if it had been burned. Davy, his expression clouding over at this affront to his friend, stepped up to Peter and glared at him. “He’s trying to help you, you git! There’s no point in—“

“No point. That’s the point right there.”

“Peter.” Michael kept his voice neutral and steady. Nothing would come of letting things escalate, as much as he might find it amusing to watch the Pacifist and the Pugilist go at one another. “We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on. What did he say, exactly?”

“That I can’t sing.”

Michael glared at Davy to thwart any unfortunate remarks, then spoke as mildly as he could. “You’re always telling us that yourself. So what did Tommy do that set you this much on edge?”

“He told me that I can’t sing the way he can’t play banjo.”

Micky scowled and ran a hand through his hair, which was beginning to curl in the late-afternoon humidity. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Was he trying to be funny?” Davy asked carefully.

“He said,” Peter sighed, “that if he tried to play banjo it would be as bad as my singing.”

“Huh.” Michael, pursing his lips, looked thoughtfully toward the control room. “I think we should all go and listen to this recording, hear what he’s talking about.”

Micky nudged Davy and nodded. “That’s a great idea! It can’t be all THAT bad. And once we hear it, we can figure out a way to help you!”

“Well, you can’t.” Peter’s voice was hollow. 

Michael hated that sound, the defeated “woe is me” tone that meant Peter was simply giving up. Why didn’t the guy fight? Why didn’t he ever, ever stand up for himself? 

He leaned over and scooped up his helmet. “If you’re gonna be like that, Pete, then you’re right – there’s not a damn thing any of us can do for you.” He straightened up, wincing at the muscle spasm in his back, and shoved the helmet down on his head. “Not unless you let us hear the tape, that is,” he added.

Davy watched silently, his dark eyes wide with curiosity. Micky bumped his shoulder against Peter’s. “C’mon,” Micky wheedled. 

“I already told you, you can’t listen to it. And it’s not because I won’t let you.” Peter addressed that part to Michael. “Tommy erased the tape.”

Davy let out a small, surprised squeak and Micky’s jaw dropped.

Michael’s hand tightened around the chinstrap of his helmet. “He did what?” He must have uttered that louder than he’d imagined, because he could see Micky’s face   
darken with apprehension. 

“Mike,” Micky half-warned, half-pleaded.

So it had been pretty loud. 

“Goddammit, Mick, I know you and David are cheek-to-jowl with these guys and more power to ya, because you’re getting to be the stars of the studio.” Michael barreled ahead, not wanting to be interrupted by protests from either of them. “But Peter and I are every bit as much a part of this group as you, and no one, especially not Tommy fucking Boyce, is gonna ERASE Peter!”

Without another word, he inclined his head toward the control room door and shoved Peter ahead of him with one hand while unfastening his helmet with the other. His steel-toed motorcycle boots clattered on the linoleum. Peter’s soft-soled moccasins made a faint swish as he hurried to match Michael’s stride. Peter might not be one to make much noise, Michael thought, but he’d be damned if anyone tried to silence the guy outright.

The sour tang of an adrenaline rush filled his mouth and his heart began to race as he opened the door to face his adversary. Tommy glanced up, obviously startled to see Peter. He quickly masked anything he was thinking when he noticed Michael. “What’s going—“

With all the strength he could muster, Michael yanked off his helmet and slammed it down on the console. He was almost disappointed that no sparks flew other than the ones in his voice. “Why don’t you let Peter sing?”

Tommy smirked. He opened his mouth to say something but Michael cut him off.

“You guys never let us come to the sessions; it’s just you two with Davy and Micky.”

“Well, that’s the way it should have been in the first place, Michael, you know what I mean?”

Michael felt heat rising from his neck to his forehead. Peripherally, he could see that Peter’s face, which had been paper-white, now showed spots of angry color beneath his freckles.

“You should,” Tommy drawled in a mocking accent, “have stayed with the Randy Sparks Trio.”

Michael looked down at his clenched fists. His fingernails were nearly white. He took a breath, keeping it shallow because of the acrid stench of stale coffee and stubbed-out cigarettes. “That’s not the name of his group,” he spat with quiet venom, “and if there’s one thing I do not need, it’s your career advice.” 

“See, I think you’re wrong.” Tommy leaned back and put his feet on the edge of the console, casually pushing the helmet aside. “I could help you, but you’re more interested in being a pain in the ass than in being a success. Come to think of it, a lot of people should take my advice. Starting with Bert and Bob, actually, because they’d be a lot better off if they hadn’t hired either of you.”

“Jesus,” Peter rasped. Michael shot him an annoyed glance for showing pain rather than contempt to the enemy. 

“Too bad they haven’t invented erasable film, huh?” Michael replied. “You could get rid of both of us in one go. Only that’s not the way Bob and Bert want it. They need Peter because he’s the smartest and the most talented of the four of us, and they need me, MISTER Boyce, because when y’all run out of six-chord hits they can count on me to deliver the goods.”

Tommy surely realized that a growing stockpile of songs was in Michael’s spiky handwriting. Micky had been intrigued by “Mary, Mary” and the vocal session for that song left him asking for more of Michael’s material. 

“Bert is particularly fond of a couple of my tunes. He’s told me, and he’s also told me that he told YOU. So we know a lot of stuff here, the two of us,” Michael added. He loomed over the seated man, not caring if he looked intimidating or just plain crazy. “Question is, what’re we going to do with all that knowledge?”

For several long moments, Michael watched as Tommy played the scene out in his head. He could hear Peter’s fingernail scraping along his corduroy pants in a nervous rhythm. Michael felt a sudden urge, one he’d had with embarrassing frequency, to put his arm around Peter and hold him close. Safe.

Not the issue here. He forced his focus back on Tommy.

“We’ve got some people coming in every day this week. We can do that ‘I love you and I know you love me’ song.” Michael was not surprised that Tommy didn’t know the title; what surprised him was how quickly and forcefully Peter interrupted him.

“That’s not the name. It’s called ‘Papa Gene’s Blues.” 

Such a resonant speaking voice, surely someone could do something with it.

“Okay, whatever it’s called, boys, we’ll record it. Happy?”

Not one to shy away from the chance to push his luck, Michael declared, “I want to produce it.”

Tommy seemed to reconsider whatever he had planned to say, and nodded. “Done. You want to track both vocal parts?”

“No. Bring Micky in for the harmony. He needs to know that I trust him. And I get to pick the other people as well.” Nodding, Tommy started making a list as Michael rattled off the familiar names. “Get Glen, Al, James, Carol – wait, Carol’s out of town so get Bill. Hal on drums, and…”

Shit, he thought, he’d suggested bringing Micky in on vocals. Dammit. This was supposed to be about Peter…but Peter’s voice wouldn’t be right for…

Oh. 

His voice wouldn’t be right, but his guitar, the one he’d naively brought to the first studio session…

“…and I want another guitar.”

“We can double-track Glen.”

“No. I get who I want, right?”

Sighing, Tommy grumbled, “Yes, whoever, just spit it out so I can go home, okay?”

“That’s good.” Michael smiled, showing his teeth. He had the situation completely under control and Tommy didn’t even realize it. “That’s very good.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “So, who do you want?”

“Peter.” 

Checkmate. 

Peter’s sudden intake of breath was the only sound in the room. Michael willed Peter to stay put, to keep quiet, not to betray his gratitude. He glanced over, trying to put his point across wordlessly, but Peter was too far gone into his own head to say or do anything.

Chuckling, Tommy wrote Peter’s name and underlined it. “You got me this time, Nesmith. Now go away and don’t show your faces until your session Thursday. Clear?”

Michael gave him a curt nod and snatched his helmet. “C’mon, Peter.”

“Michael, I—“

“Save it.” Michael guided him out the door, closed it firmly, and backed Peter against a wall. Relief and anger in equal measure ricocheted through him. “Don’t do that again, ever. Don’t you show when he hurts you because he fucking enjoys that scene. And don’t thank me, either.”

“But you really stuck your neck out for me in there, and I want to—“

“I mean it.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Davy and Micky inching closer, straining to hear if he’d stood up for Peter. He felt vulnerable, and when he felt vulnerable he inevitably turned surly. “I didn’t do it for you, you idiot. You’re just the canary in the coal mine; whatever they do to you, they’re gonna try to do to me.”

Whatever he thought Peter might do in response – run away, cry, yell at him – he wasn’t prepared for the reality of Peter’s warm hand brushing against his cheek. “You say that, and you might even try to believe it,” Peter murmured, “but I know better.” He pulled Michael into an awkward embrace, pressing his head against Michael’s chest. “I know your heart. It’s a good one. Don’t be so afraid to show it.”

Too stunned to save himself with a retort, Michael found his hand resting briefly on Peter’s shiny hair. That wouldn’t do. He forced his galloping thoughts to regroup. By the time he had imposed order on his own mind, Peter had moved away and was excitedly describing the events to Micky and Davy. 

“…and then he said my name out of the blue, just like that, and you should’ve seen Tommy’s face!”

“You’re gonna get to play? That’s fantastic!” Micky, genuinely happy as he always was at his friends’ good fortune, flung his arms around Peter and jumped with irrepressible glee. “Good job, Mike!”

“Hey, hey, I’m a session player,” Peter warbled to the tune of their theme song.

“You really do have a terrible voice, you know,” Davy remarked with an exaggerated wince. Peter stiffened in response. “But you are one hell of a guitar player. One of the best I’ve ever known, man, I swear to God.”

Immediately Peter’s demeanor changed to one of delight. Michael was continually amazed at how easy it was to please Peter, and he was a little jealous. His own inner demons could not be contented with a few words of praise.

They walked outside, each man taking in a lungful of relatively fresh air. Micky made Peter re-tell the story over and over again, laughing louder each time. Davy stood in front of Michael with his arms folded across his chest. “That canary in the coal mine thing, Mike…that was bullshit. You weren’t going to let someone hurt your friend, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Someday you might get the chance to stand up for Christian just like that.”

Michael nodded, fumbling to put his helmet on so he wouldn’t have to look down into Davy’s dark, reproachful eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“You’re gonna be a hell of a father, and I’m…I’m proud of you.” Michael forced a wry grin by way of thanks, and Davy seemed to shake himself out of whatever frame of mind he was in. “Just be careful not to piss these guys off permanently, you know?”

“Gonna go make it right with him?” Michael inquired. “Take care of any rough edges I left behind?”

Davy shook his head. “I don’t know about that. Listen, Micky and I thought we’d take you guys over to the diner for celebration or commiseration, whichever needed to happen. You coming?”

Michael watched as Micky play-punched Peter in the solar plexus until Peter let out a falsely operatic high note. He glanced at Davy, at the openness of his expressive face, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to be a part of the group. He’d seldom been happier than when Peter was staying with him and Phyllis and the baby, and he’d been truly sorry when Davy had found a place with Micky despite the overcrowding in their little home. 

He adjusted the helmet. It felt good on his head, solid and protective, insulating him from the rest of the world.

“I…I might meet you guys later, okay?”

Davy nodded, furtively glancing back at the Colgems doors. Mike gave Peter and Micky a brief salute as he brushed past them on his way to the motorcycle. He put the key in the ignition. The familiar rush of power beneath him made him smile. 

Further down the row he saw Micky getting into Peter’s dilapidated car. Davy was still outside the studio, one foot on the pavement and the other on the stairs as if unsure whether to join Micky and Peter, or go back inside to smooth things over with Tommy. 

As Michael rode away, he couldn’t tell which way Davy was about to turn.

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as something else altogether, but the book excerpt posted by Elizabethanlutesongs caused me to take it in another direction.
> 
> Boyce: I did give Peter a voice audition on Saturday’s Child but I had to finally say, “look Pete, I can’t play banjo and you can’t sing. If I played the banjo I’d sound like you singing, I have to erase the tape.” So Peter left in a huff and came back with Michael, who pulled off his motorcycle helmet, crashed it down onto the console and demanded “why don’t you let Peter sing? You guys never let us come to the sessions, it’s just you two with Davy and Micky.” So I said “well that’s the way it should have been in the first place Michael, you know what I mean? You should have stayed with the Randy Sparks Trio.” In the end we let him do a couple of tracks on his own just to calm the situation down a little.”
> 
> \--The Monkees: Monkeemania by Glenn A. Baker (1997) page 32.
> 
>  
> 
> With all the thanks in the world to Firenze (theclockinthesky) for detailed, honest, and helpful beta reading!


End file.
